


A Broken Circle

by bromeliadslove



Series: Moonlight [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, and tbh it kinda is, domestic abuse, hannibal kills for will and acts like it's the most romantic thing ever, the abuse isn't between hannibal and will so don't worry babes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bromeliadslove/pseuds/bromeliadslove
Summary: When Will was twenty-seven, a clearly drunk man at the bar told him he looked more radiant than the sun.It’s embarrassing now to think of how this was the way it all began.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Moonlight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148489
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	A Broken Circle

When Will was twenty-seven, a clearly drunk man at the bar told him he looked more radiant than the sun.

It’s embarrassing now to think of how _this_ was the way it all began.

.

Today is going to be a bad day.

Will can feel a headache coming on as he looks at the crime scene photos. All young men in their mid- to late-twenties, all bloodied and broken and dead.

“The killer was trying to play God,” Will says. “He saw his victims as saints.”

“What does that even _mean?”_ Jack demands.

Will grabs his coat and starts heading out.

“Will!”

“It’s--it’s like those tales of martyrdom. Can’t be a saint if you don’t suffer extensively to the point of death. He’s trying to help them _ascend._ He’s most likely someone who comes from a Catholic background and exhibits violent behavior toward people he loves. This is his masterpiece. This is his way of answering prayers.”

Jack looks frustrated during the brief second Will meets his eye. But then, Jack has been frustrated for a long time now, ever since Will got acquitted. He doesn’t know where Will stands--no one does, not even Hannibal.

Will keeps walking.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Jack calls after him.

“I’m going fishing,” Will says shortly.

.

As Hannibal pours the wine, the light hits the bottle, only for the dark red to swallow it whole. Will finds it fitting that what Hannibal serves turns light into darkness.

“It’s fascinating,” Hannibal says, “to observe the religious aspects of wine. Some say it is an act against God to consume it, for it makes a mockery of his creation. But you and I know better--the wine reveals man’s soul in all its flaws and shame. Is this not the work of God?”

“And if the wine induces me to run you through with my steak knife?” Will asks.

Hannibal smiles at Will, this thin-lipped imitation of human kindness.

“Perhaps, then, the wine is enabling you to follow the will of God,” Hannibal says.

Will accepts the glass of wine and holds it up to his lips. He does not drink it, instead choosing to breathe it in. He wonders whether Hannibal managed to instill his . . . _habits_ into the wine.

“Please, Will,” Hannibal says, gesturing slightly. “Drink. We have many unfinished conversations, you and I.”

.

Julian was drunk.

Will had to keep reminding himself of this the entire time Julian was flirting. He didn’t _mean_ any of it--at least, he wouldn’t if he were sober.

But it was fun, it was easy, and it was the first time in weeks Will managed to meet another person’s eyes without flinching away.

They exchanged phone numbers, and Will left the bar with the firm belief that he would never hear from Julian ever again. After all, when morning came and knocked the sense back into Julian that alcohol stole away, Julian would know to stay as far away from Will as possible.

The next day, Julian texted Will a smile.

.

“Jack sees the Ripper as the devil,” Hannibal says, cutting a piece of steak. “Tell me, Will, what do you see?”

“I see a lonely, pathetic man grasping for companionship,” Will says blandly.

Hannibal takes a bite of steak, and Will watches the lines of Hannibal’s throat shift. When Hannibal consumes food, he makes it look like poetry, like a defiant hymn of blasphemy instead of praise.

“Do you?” Hannibal asks, a tiny smile curling its way up his lips. “Or is that what you would like our good friend Jack to believe you see?”

Hannibal leans forward slightly, his eyes glinting in the dim light. His fingers rest lightly on Will’s knee for the briefest second before falling away.

“What do you see?” Hannibal asks.

Will lifts his chin and looks the devil in the eye.

“I see an artist,” Will says coldly, “who has reduced mankind to his brush.”

“Not his masterpiece?” Hannibal asks.

Will takes a bite of steak and chews in tiny, sharp movements.

“That would require the artist to see humans as a masterpiece,” Will says. “That would require him to see humans as _art._ The Ripper sees men as _tools--_ necessary to achieve his ends, but ultimately discarded and forgotten in favor of the finished product.”

Will takes a long sip of wine and stares Hannibal down over his glass. Hannibal tilts his head just so and appraises Will with a look he has come to understand.

“There are, of course, exceptions to every rule,” Will says.

“Does the Ripper have such an exception?” Hannibal asks softly.

Will tosses back the rest of the wine, then stands and grabs his coat. He dislikes the knowledge in Hannibal’s eyes--the understanding that Will sees him and the pleasure that comes from it.

“Couldn’t say,” Will says bitterly. “After all, it’s not like I know him.”

He leaves the house, aware of Hannibal’s watchful gaze resting on the nape of his neck.

.

Julian was too good to be true.

This was something Will had to remind himself before every date and every phone call. It wasn’t so much the actual person that was too good to be true, but rather the idea behind him.

Stability. Understanding. Companionship. Love.

“How do you do it?” Julian asked one night, lying next to Will in bed.

Julian’s skin was still warm to the touch, and Will liked the presence of Julian’s hand on his thigh. It was a comfortable presence, an acknowledgement: _I’m here; you’re here; we’re both **here.**_

“Do what?” Will asked.

“The . . .” Julian made a vaguely circular hand motion. “The people thing. Psychoanalyzing. It’s like you see things that aren’t there.”

“They’re there,” Will said. “They’re just . . . hard to see. Like dust on a sunbeam--the dust is always present. We just don’t notice it until the light alerts us to its presence.”

Julian smirked and rolled on top of Will.

“And I suppose you’re the light?” he teased.

“If you like.”

Julian laughed and started to press kisses into Will’s skin. He started at the corner of Will’s jaw, then trailed his way down Will’s neck.

“You,” Julian murmured into the thrum of Will’s pulse, “are so, _utterly_ pretentious.”

Will’s eyes twitched, and he blinked rapidly to try to regain control.

Julian was too good to be true.

This was something Will had to remind himself.

.

Alana doesn’t understand why Will returned to therapy with Hannibal. At times, Will doesn’t understand it himself. But for every bit of Will’s soul that Hannibal pries away, Will manages to see what hides inside Hannibal’s. It works both ways, and Will has no intention of letting Hannibal slip away.

“You’ve been having nightmares again,” Hannibal remarks.

Will brushes his finger against the spines of Hannibal’s books. They are all cracked, showing use and wear. Some men fill their libraries with books they will never read simply for the image of literacy. Will suspects that Hannibal has read every single one.

“I dream of the hospital,” Will says. “And of Chilton’s smug little smile as I am held down.”

“Do your dreams model reality?” asks Hannibal. “Or do they show something that is but a distortion of what was already there?”

“They tied me down,” Will says, “and took notes while I screamed.”

Hannibal steps closer. Will isn’t looking in his direction, but he can feel the movement, the body heat muffled as it is by Hannibal’s layers of clothing.

“Still in the dream?” Hannibal asks. “Still in the hospital? Or have we traveled somewhere else in your memories?”

Will turns his head to look at Hannibal in the eye. Hannibal wears a placid, inviting expression. This is a lie. Everything about Hannibal is a lie, and Will doesn’t know where the real Hannibal begins.

He is a facade. He has become the mask that he donned so long ago, and Will cannot help being fascinated with the thought of what Hannibal would be should the mask ever crack.

 _What,_ not _who,_ because Will cannot bring himself to think of Hannibal as a person, as someone real.

“If you want to ask me something, don’t bother talking in circles,” Will says. “I don’t like circles. They’re boring and painful and endless.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrow.

“You find repetition tedious and possibly agonizing,” Hannibal says. “What little comfort it offers holds no appeal.”

“What do you want?” Will grinds out.

Hannibal scans Will’s form, as if looking for weaknesses to poke and pry. This is a show. Hannibal knows Will’s weaknesses better than Will sometimes feels he does.

“You dislike being trapped,” Hannibal says.

“Most people do,” Will says.

“I do wonder,” Hannibal says, cautiously, slowly, as if edging toward an injured animal about to flee, “if this dislike stems from experiences prior to your arrest.”

Will stares at Hannibal for longer than what is comfortable, his heart pounding. Hannibal is close, too close, too _there--_ as if his presence is overshadowing everything in the room.

Hannibal says gently, “You mentioned locks?”

It is positioned as a question as if to set Will at ease, but it is not a question. Hannibal knows exactly what he is saying, and Will is _this_ close to killing Hannibal for not holding back.

“I told you I wasn’t going to talk about that,” Will says steadily.

“You say a great deal of things,” Hannibal says dryly. “I find that what we say does not always match up with what we do.”

Will shoulders past Hannibal and makes his way to the door. He pauses, his hand resting on the knob.

“You,” Will says, “are the _last person_ I would ever talk about this with.”

.

Julian had his flaws, of course. He had mood swings and jealousy. He had this stubbornness to him, a refusal to admit that he was wrong, an inability to just _let things go._

Will understood. After all, Julian was a busy man with all his court cases and meetings and trials and paperwork. Will blamed Julian’s job as a lawyer on all the arguments. Julian often forgot that arguments at home weren’t debates in court.

“Where were you last night?” Julian demanded.

“Some of the guys wanted to get beers, so I went, too,” Will said shortly. “I texted you.”

“You don’t like _the guys,”_ Julian said sardonically. “Why the Hell would you want to get drunk with them?”

Will rested his forehead in his hands. He was so tired, and he hated arguing. He never won, even when he wasn’t wrong.

“I didn’t _get drunk with them,”_ Will said. “I just didn’t feel like saying no. So I didn’t. And I texted you.”

The rest of the argument was fuzzy, and Will could barely remember what he said, let alone what Julian said. He felt like he was repeating himself over and over, until all his words were falling apart, stripped of their potency and meaning.

This was how Julian Anderson, one of the top lawyers at his firm, won his cases.

This was how Julian Anderson ensured Will never won his.

.

Will wonders sometimes if he would have told Hannibal in the days of trust. Before there was the murky, twisting waters in which betrayal and manipulation swam, before Hannibal took hold of Will’s heart and stripped it bare for the world to see and scorn--

It makes Will sick to think of all the times he came _this close_ to just telling Hannibal everything. The fights that devolved into Julian screaming at Will while he stood there, unable to do anything other than blink and try his best not to crack; the terse voicemails and silent tension at home, threatening to swallow Will whole until he lost the ability to breathe; the scorn in Julian’s eyes whenever Will said something so impossibly _stupid;_ everything, everything, _everything--_

Hannibal would have used it. He would have taken these moments and fashioned a narrative to fit his tale, and Will would have ended up even worse off than he is now.

“I wonder sometimes,” Will tells Alana over a few beers, “if I’m crazy. Not if I’m going crazy but if I was so irreparably damaged long ago that I could no longer tell what sanity was.”

“You’re not crazy,” Alana says, and her palms are so warm on top of Will’s hands.

“Hannibal keeps asking me about locks,” Will says.

A look of confusion steals across Alana’s face. She quickly hides it, but Will feels a giddy rush of sheer _relief._ She doesn’t see Will. She doesn’t know the parts of him that he likes hidden away from prying eyes.

“Then stop talking to him,” Alana says.

“It’s a mutual toxicity,” Will says. “One I am currently unwilling to cleanse myself of. He wants to know-- _needs_ to know. I am owed something in return.”

“You share your secrets, and he’ll share his?” Alana shakes her head. “Will, that’s not how Hannibal _works,_ and you know it.”

Will stares at Alana’s hands. Hands that touched Hannibal. Hands that received touches in return.

“For everything you give, something inevitably comes back,” Will says. “Not even Hannibal can stop that. It’s all a matter of making sure what you get is something valuable.”

Alana gives Will a look that says she thinks Will is headed for destruction, but Will pays it no mind.

.

They never argued about things that _mattered._ At least, Will didn’t think it mattered, but Julian always found a way to turn it into something worth shouting over.

“I don’t think--”

“You don’t, do you,” Julian snarled. “You never _think._ You just--”

“That’s not--”

Julian was screaming now, and Will could feel his brain start to shut off. He couldn’t handle it when Julian raised his voice--he couldn’t process the meaning of anything Julian was saying. It was just _words,_ a blur of sound and fury and movement.

Julian seized the front of Will’s shirt and dragged him forward until they were face-to-face.

“Are you even listening to me?” Julian asked in a low, cold voice.

Low was dangerous. Low was a warning. Low meant something bad was about to strike Will across the face.

“Yes,” Will blurted out, panic overriding common sense.

“Really,” Julian said, his voice cutting. “Summarize.”

Will could feel himself blinking way too fast, but he couldn’t make himself stop.

“Please let go of my shirt,” Will said unsteadily.

“You don’t know, do you,” Julian said. “You never do.”

“I don’t--” Will needed to stop his eyes from twitching. Julian hated it when Will did that--he likened it to seeing an appliance malfunction. “I was listening. I was. It just wasn’t making sense, and you’re angry, and I want you to let go of my shirt, and I _don’t know_ what you said, but I was listening--I _was--”_

“Stop talking like that,” Julian cut in. “Do you have any idea how incoherent you sound?”

“--I know you’re mad about something, but it doesn’t make sense why you’re mad, and I was _trying_ to pay attention, but I couldn’t. It was like a switch was off in my brain, and I _don’t know what you want from me--”_

“SHUT UP!” Julian yelled.

He shoved Will roughly, and the world tilted around him.

Will knew he was falling. He knew he could grab onto Julian’s arm and try to right himself.

But he landed on the ground, the back of his head slamming against the cabinet. Everything went dark. Will’s fingers scrabbled on the floor, and he tried to push himself up, but his arms weren’t listening to him. He could hear Julian’s footsteps coming closer and closer.

Will’s vision returned just in time to see Julian crouching over him, concern on his face.

“Fuck,” Julian said, reaching out and gently touching Will’s hair. _“Fuck,_ I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Will couldn’t open his mouth.

Julian felt the back of Will’s head, and panic rose in Will’s throat.

“There isn’t any bleeding,” Julian remarked.

Will shoved Julian’s hand away.

“Let go of my shirt.”

“I’m not touching your--”

“Let go!” Will screamed. “Just let go; just _stop;_ just _leave me alone--”_

Something darkened in Julian’s eyes.

.

Will looks blankly at pictures Jack has presented him. He doesn’t really see them.

He sees a solid wood door, with smears of blood running down its grain. He sees his own knuckles, bruised and bleeding. The door is locked, and he can’t break it down, no matter how hard he tries. He’s screaming, but for once, Julian is not screaming back, and Will just wants Julian to _let him out._ He’s _sorry;_ he’ll do whatever Julian wants; he just _needs Julian to unlock the door--_

“Will,” Jack says gently.

“I don’t know him,” Will says, too loudly to be convincing.

“You two dated for over two years,” Jack says.

“I don’t,” Will says, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know him.”

“I know this is hard for you,” Jack says. “But you need to listen to me--”

“I DON’T KNOW HIM!” Will explodes.

“Will-”

Will flinches, his arms instinctively coming up to block his face. Jack freezes, and Will feels the urge to throw up. He quickly shoves his hands into his pockets and avoids Jack’s eyes.

“Will,” Jack says quietly.

“Don’t.”

“Did you think I was going to hit you?”

Will laughs shortly, this tiny, angry sound that slips off his tongue. He hates how people ask questions they already know the answer to.

“I don’t know him,” Will repeats.

He leaves, half-expecting Jack to follow. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or betrayed when Jack doesn’t move.

.

“You killed him.”

Hannibal looks up from his tablet, the picture of serenity. If he is annoyed with Will abruptly entering his office without invitation or warning, he does not show it.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says calmly.

“The Chesapeake Ripper gutted Julian Anderson like a pig and ripped his heart out while it was still beating,” Will says. “Why.”

Hannibal closes his tablet, then stands up from his desk. He comes up to Will, and Will backs away, his hands shaking.

 _“Hannibal,”_ Will says warningly.

“Will,” Hannibal says.

“Tell me why,” Will hisses.

Hannibal looks at Will without expression. The accusatory tone in Will’s voice does not seem to phase Hannibal whatsoever, but then, when does it?

“Do you grieve for him?” Hannibal asks.

Will gives Hannibal the nastiest glare he can manage.

“I do have regrets,” Hannibal says. “I am not inhuman, after all.”

“Really,” Will says flatly.

Hannibal reaches out slightly, so close to touching Will, yet so far away at the same time. His hand hovers in the air, as if the molecules in between him and Will block his path.

“I see now,” Hannibal whispers, “the mistake I made. I sought to kill but did not consider your desires. What right did I have to take away your right to be the one who held the knife?”

Will feels his lips twist into something not quite so ugly as a grimace.

“And you think I wanted that?”

“I think you dreamed of it, with far more passionate desire than you ever gifted your fantasies of killing me.”

And Will smiles, this savage mockery of a grin that might as well be a sneer.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Will says. “I felt _plenty_ of passionate desire when I thought of killing you with my bare hands.”

He rests his hand on the nape of Hannibal’s neck and draws him close, fitting himself against Hannibal’s chest. Will kisses him, quietly, gently, in sharp contrast to the harshness of his voice seconds ago.

Will rests his forehead on the tip of Hannibal’s collarbone, and Hannibal’s hand strokes the back of Will’s head.

“Thank you,” Will murmurs into Hannibal’s chest.

When Will was twenty-seven, a clearly drunk man at the bar told him he looked more radiant than the sun.

It’s fascinating, in a way, that _this_ was the way it all began.

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh. This was supposed to be a drabble. It . . . got away from me a little.
> 
> Leave a comment below or come chat with me on tumblr! maybe-theres-a-god-above.tumblr.com


End file.
